The Face of His Mortality
by jactehsniper
Summary: The beast had just been thrown up against a tree until it fell to the ground, dead. It was all over now. He was over now.


Oh, I know, I should be working on my Ghost hunt fics. But, but, but... It had to be written! I couldn't not write it, it was flowing from my fingertips! Flowing! And what fanfic author in their right mind ever tries to stopper the flow once it starts? No one, I tell you! No one!

**Disclaimer:** I don't even own this computer. Enough said. =_=

So, once again, enjoy!

**Edit:** I found there was a bit cut off the end. =_= Sorry 'bout that. All fixed now!

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**The Face of His Mortality**

Silence had never felt so terrifying. In all his experiences, he had never felt this helpless. Not once had he trembled in as much fear as he did now. Never before had he felt truly and completely done for, until now.

Surely, _surely,_ there was no saving himself now. And they both knew it.

The beast had fallen in a heap, never to wake again and he wondered if it would soon be him. Was he about to become that lifeless? Was he about to stare into eternity with those sightless eyes? Was that about to be him?

The sound of exhaling breath caught his attention; the whisper of air movement taunted him in ways words could never achieve. Slowly, solemnly, he turned and faced its source. Cautiously, reluctantly, he focused on the face of the man who held is fate in his hands. Logic told him this was the last face he would ever see. Years of teachings told him he would not survive this. There was no escape.

The moment drew on. Agonisingly, torturingly, it continued, forcing him to stare into that familiar face. It forced him to accept his own mortality. This man could end his life here and now, if he so wished it. It was a hard pill to swallow. Mortifying. Humiliating.

The sound of steel on steel somewhere to his left warned him of the soldiers. He tore his eyes away to see them running towards him, swords drawn and ready to strike. They were going to kill him.

A sharp intake of breath, indecipherable words. A dozen fallen arrows shot past him and into the front line of enemies. Running footsteps, the scrunching of leaves. He turned around, eyes widening as a sword was tossed his way. He caught it at the hilt, shocked and bewildered. His eyes met the other man's and his breath caught in his throat.

"Arthur," the sound of the man's voice was jolting, "I'm sorry, but you'll have to do most of the fighting. I'm lousy with a sword."

The soldiers were nearly upon them. There was no time for talking. No time for thinking. But he found himself staring at the man. The cheeky grin that had appeared there was familiar. Very, very familiar.

"I'm better with magic," Merlin declared, cheeky grin never falling for a moment.

There was no time for further talk as the first soldier got within strike range and instinct took over. Steel on steel sounded through the trees. The cries of men thrown to their death soon intermingled with the noise of the fight. For what felt like hours, but was in reality only minutes, they fought. One was wielding steel, the other, magic.

Then the fighting ended and he was back to where he had been, staring at the man who could take away his life in an instant. But this time he felt no fear, only trust. He sheathed his sword, breathing heavily, but giving the man a smirk.

"Well, _Merlin_," he drawled, clapping a hand firmly on the other man's shoulder, "you really are hopeless with a sword. It's a good thing we finally found something you can _actually_ do well."

Merlin laughed at his words, batting his hand away. Arthur felt the tug of a smile form on his own face as the man before him straightened up to his full height and looked him in the eye.

"Arthur," he said determinedly, "I have magic."

"Yes, I can see that," Arthur said drily.

"I'm still your friend," he pressed on, ignoring Arthur's words. "I'm not evil. I'll never do anything to willingly hurt you or Camelot, that's a promise. I swear it on my father's grave."

"Merlin, if you were going to kill me you would have when I saw you use it," Arthur said quickly, feeling a need to put an end to this. Merlin being serious was too off putting. "Instead you gave me my sword and fought a troop of soldiers with me. You don't need to say anything."

Arthur didn't wait to watch the look of utter joy that seemed to over take his manservant's expression, he had a kingdom to return to and he'd be damned if Merlin was going to delay him with happy gushing. He quickly set about retrieving his horse and mounted before he looked back at the still grinning man.

"Hurry up, Merlin!" he said impatiently, "I have to report these soldiers to the king and you have to muck out the stables."

"What?" Arthur smirked at the response. "Again? Can't someone else do it? I _did_ just save your life."

"_No,_ Merlin," he said haughtily, "you have to do it. Without magic."

The mutinous muttering that followed as Merlin located his horse and mounted almost made him laugh.

"Shut up, Merlin," he said, eventually getting sick of the muttered name calling, "You're going to muck out the stables, whether you like it or not."

"Why?" Merlin demanded impudently.

"Because you hid this from me," He said bluntly, almost indignantly, "I don't like it when my servants hide things from me. _Especially_ when it's important like, oh, I don't know, _magic_."

Merlin huffed. He smirked. They both rode on in silence, knowing that that was the end of the argument, there wasn't any point in continuing, Merlin would still end up mucking out the stables regardless. He smiled fondly as Camelot came into view, of all the possible people to hold his fate in their hands, he'd gotten Merlin. Servant, sorcerer, and trusted friend. Arthur thought it wasn't such a bad outcome.


End file.
